The yogurt flared from the plate like something machined with anger. I was projecting of course, trying to be a temperamental artist, donning the dinner table with something passionate and eye-catching.  I failed on all counts. I could not even use the word  “cansaquaga” to describe my stunted effort at expression. The word “cansaquaga” did not exist and yet desperate to enliven the meal, I made usage of the word, when my utensils fell from my hand and I was left with nothing but my napkin.